Tom went out to look at the new arrival.
A man of forty, rather flashily dressed, though somewhat mud-spattered, rode up on a horse that looked much the worse for being abroad on the bad roads.
"I understand that Mr.Hinman is here, ill," began the stranger.
"He is," Tom nodded.

"Have you any interest in him ?" "Mr.Hinman is my father." "Come right in," Tom invited, throwing open the flap of the tent.
"Hold my horse, will you ?" Something in the younger Hinman's way of making the request caused Reade's backbone to stiffen.
"I see that you have a piece of halter rope," Tom replied.

"You may tie your horse to any one of the trees.

They don't belong to me." The son frowned, but led his mount to a tree, hitching it there.
Then he turned and entered the tent.
"How are you, father ?" asked the younger Hinman, crossing to the cot and bending over the old man.
"Better, already, I think," replied Reuben Hinman feebly.
"I should hope so," replied Timothy Hinman, looking more than a trifle annoyed.

"You had no business to be out in that storm." "I couldn't help-----" began the old man slowly, but Dr.Hewitt broke in almost fiercely: "Your father is in no condition to talk, Mr.Hinman.